


You and that denim jacket

by jamiemoriartys



Category: Adam Levine (Musician), Blake Shelton (Musician), The Voice (US) RPF
Genre: M/M, adam comes back to """prank""" the coaches with a blind audition, and blake doesn't turn, and other the voice cast, au where both are single, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamiemoriartys/pseuds/jamiemoriartys
Summary: ”Some Maroon 5 fan you are, fan my ass!”Blake barks out another laugh, slamming his hands together as the audience bubbles with laughter.”Fan of your ass, yes”, Blake says, allcasual, and looks into his notes as if he ever writes any.
Relationships: Adam Levine/Blake Shelton
Comments: 18
Kudos: 122





	You and that denim jacket

**Author's Note:**

> think of a time where adam's already been gone for two seasons but red pill blues has recently been released ok that's where this one takes place in
> 
> there's a video called "Superstars PRANK The Voice coaches with unexpected Audition" which really led to this idea, and look, i only just started watching the voice and i've literally sucked down everything i can get my hands on, and good gosh i love the chemistry here and i hope the ship ain't dead just yet
> 
> a few disclaimers:  
\- english isn't my first language  
\- this is a work of fiction, about fictional characters based on the public personae of real people, this is not about the REAL people  
\- please do not link this to the real people associated with this work of fiction

People do it all the time, really.

_See you soon_, they say. Maybe even _this was fun, we should do this again_. Or, _let’s stay in touch_.

Yet, they never do. So why would Adam Levine and Blake Shelton do any differently? When stripped of their celebrity status, they are just people, after all. And, _and_! It’s not like he has missed Blake, or Carson, or Kelly, or John, or The Voice altogether. He’s been touring and touring has always been grand, and it’s not like he has enough energy between shows and travelling to _miss_ things.

But now, they’re between tour dates, between continents, taking a well-deserved break from touring, and Adam has absolutely nothing but time to think to fill his days with.

Maybe that’s why he barely even considers Irving’s email before replying _yes, yes, yes_.

It’s only later when the concept starts to stress him out. He knows of other stars doing a surprise blind audition, or prank, as they call them, on other countries’ The Voice shows. He thinks of Rita Ora and Jessie J, and how they got four chairs to turn.

Adam’s hands don’t usually get sweaty, but today, as he’s standing at the all too familiar backstage of The Voice, he feels the mic slipping from his clammy fingers. He can their the coaches, fucking around as usual, Kelly’s shrill voice and Blake’s unmistakable bark of a laugh, audience cheering them on.

Suddenly, it’s dead quiet.

”Our next artist is approaching the stage now.”

Adam thinks his heart might explode any minute now.

Every step he takes, every beat of his heart must echo in the stupid Stage 12 he’s spent half of his life at, to the point where this _should feel_ like coming home. But it’s not, and if Adam could go back in time and tell Irving _no_, he fucking would.

The audience has been prepped, obviously, and despite excited faces in the near seats, they stay quiet. Suddenly, Adam’s terrified. What if none of them turns for him? God, he pinches himself, he isn’t here to audition, what the fuck, Adam, get it fucking together.

First strings of _Denim Jacket_ start and Adam feels shocked all of the sudden, as if he has forgotten this is the stupid god damn song he chose (chose!) to sing. And as much as he’d like to call quits — they would do it, the crew, he knows — he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise.

And fuck, he’s not going to pretend like he doesn’t know the song by heart.

_You’re standing there with your cigarette,  
looking at me like we’ve never met._

Nobody turns, and Adam doesn’t really expect it. It’s not like he wrote Denim Jacket to impress people, to show off. A mellow song like that — some critic had dubbed it as elevator music when the album first came out — and yet Adam holds it rather near and dear to his heart.

All the meaningless lyrics and songs to a _her_ rather than to a _you_ were all worth it to get to slide a song like this on an album.

_I know I fucked up, so I’ll take the blame,_  
and I don’t expect you, to let me explain,  
you can’t forgive, I can’t forget. 

The run is going to make John turn, maybe even Nick, he must have a soft spot for a good falsetto. And when Adam does go into the high run, he holds the microphone close to his heart, body bent, eyes closed. He feels terribly naked without his guitar.

_I know you’re just too different now._

And there it is, the telltale sound of a button being pushed, once, twice, and the audience downright _screams_ over his soft vocals.

”Whaaaaaaaat?!” goes Kelly Clarkson, hands on her cheeks, standing up, and even if Adam can keep his laughter from ruining the chorus, he can’t stop grinning. She looks at Nick next to her, points at the stage, and Nick just laughs, incredulous.

The stage lights up as another coach turns, and Adam isn’t too deep into the song, yet anyway, to meet John’s gaze. He claps his hands, a grin spreading on his face, and it’s barely the end of the chorus before he turns to his left, to _Blake_.

Adam can’t make out what he’s saying.

They had decided to cut the song, ending with the soft bridge after the second chorus. What they hadn’t decided, though, not at least with Adam present, was to _stop playing right before the bridge_, leaving his easy, high vocals hanging alone in the air, echoing from the Stage 12 walls and filling everything around him.

The crowd erupts, and Adam hides his face in his hands. Nick, Kelly and John are all up on their feet, clapping away, and Adam looks up just in time to see Blake’s chair turn.

He doesn’t look surprised, he’s simply smiling — is it real, or is it for the television, Adam finds himself wondering — as he joins the applause. Kelly tries to get a word in, waiting for the hype to quiet down, and once it does, Adam manages to steal a moment to point at Blake.

”Some Maroon 5 fan you are, fan my ass!”

Blake barks out another laugh, slamming his hands together as the audience bubbles with laughter.

”Fan of your ass, yes”, Blake says, all _casual_, and looks into his notes as if he ever writes any, and of course the people in the crowd go crazy over that, amped up by the other coaches’ joyous bursts of laughter. 

”Oh my gosh, I did not expect that, like, it’s been so many seasons and we’ve _never had_—”

”Jesus, Kelly, so impolite, look, I’m so sorry, for her lack of manners, will you tell us your name and where you’re from, young man?”

And there they go again, the crowd cackling as Kelly sits back down in a fit of giggles. Adam plays along, pointing at himself questioningly and mouthing _me?_ as Blake’s eyes never leave him.

”Yes, _you_, Adam, you idiot!”

”Oh wow, you didn’t even turn and here you are harassing _our artist_, how very rude of you”, John chimes in, that disapproving tone of his far from something serious.

It’s all fun and games, easy banter from seasons ago coming back to him like he never really left, and Adam pretends he doesn’t even acknowledge Blake’s denim jacket.

Blake does, though, later when they’re shooting the in-between auditions commentary. Mark has them sat next to each other, and it shouldn’t feel uncomfortable but it does and that’s what has Adam biting the inside of his cheek.

”And then, Adam, maybe have your arms around him, cheek against his shoulder, here”, Mark directs, and Adam, very tentatively, he moves into Blake’s space and wraps his arms around the other, leaning his face against the coarse denim there.

”This okay?”

”Yeah.”

”’m not asking you, oh my God, I was asking Mark, you’re so dumb.”

”Well you oughta ask me!”

The conversation is easy, Blake’s body rumbling with laughter that takes Adam with it too, and soon after they’re a giggling pile on the couch, Blake’s head thrown back and Adam’s mushed against the other’s chest.

”Come on, guys”, Mark says, but it’s soft, and Adam pulls back enough to wipe his eyes before settling back against Blake’s shoulder.

”Did you miss me, Blakey?”

They’re rolling, and it’s not _exactly_ scripted, but they did sort of plan how the conversation would go, at least until Blake throws a curveball.

”Clearly not as much as you missed me in my denim jacket.”

Adam feels his face heat up, and he’s suddenly thankful for his position, hidden against Blake’s arm. He hadn’t thought it was obvious, nor that Blake would catch on, but it was and he did and—

Instead of a reply, he groans. Long and deep, into the denim muffling the sound, and maybe they’ll slap some funny music over that and cut the clip short for the laughs.

”You’re so dumb. You big dummy”, he murmurs and finally looks up at Blake. And it’s not like Blake wears his heart in his sleeve or his feelings on his face, but the sudden warmth in the other’s eyes makes Adam’s gut uneasy. 

”I can’t believe you didn’t turn for me _serenading_ you!” he says, mock upset, and pulls away from Blake to playfully shove at him. And Blake’s never been one to really hold a poker face, and he doesn’t this time either, eyes crinkling and dimples sinking into his cheeks as he laughs.

Then — mainly because it’s good comedy, Adam tells himself, and not at all because he wants nothing more than to climb the man next to him like a tree — Adam gets up and dramatically storms off.

”Love you”, Blake calls after him, and Adam turns around to see a camera pointing at him. He huffs, flips Blake off, and yet calls grumpily over his shoulder, ”Love you too.”

”Cut, that’s great”, Mark calls, and that’s that.

”That was that, whaddaya mean?”

Adam sighs and wiggles his toes at Kelly, who swats at them like a mom, and he kindly moves his feet to give her room to sit.

The trailers have certainly gotten nicer at some point, he notices, thoroughly enjoying the plush couch in Kelly’s. It’s very soft and not at all cramped, and it could fit even a Bigfoot of a man like Blake Shelton.

“That that was that, end of the story”, Adam sighs.

“Come on now, you sang a song, for him, about him, I’m just sayin’, is all. He _must_ know!”

He gives a pointed look at Kelly still standing up, barefoot, hands on hips and that all too motherly pout on her face. Adam tosses a pillow at her.

“What do you want me to do about it?” he huffs. 

“I don’t know, go sit on his lap or somethin’, I don’t know!”

The Blinds continue the next day, and Mark is happy to let Adam hang out in set.

Don’t get him wrong, their tour itself is a big production, bus loads of people and bus loads of equipment, but there’s nothing quite like The Voice. Stage 12 is always bustling with people, most of them familiar faces from previous seasons, some even from the very first season, and Adam doesn’t want to admit it, but it makes his heart full, just roaming around every little nook of Stage 12.

He jokes around with Kelly at makeup and hair, finding himself much more relaxed at the sidelines, in a simple white tee and some dark pants, without a speck of powder on his skin, hair ruffled and standing up from Paul’s rough hug.

“You look good”, says Kelly, giving him a look from her chair as her team shuffles all around her. “Like, _good _good. The break’s doing you well.”

“Aw, thank you, Kelly Clarkson”, Adam murmurs, more at his phone than her, and Twitter shouldn’t really be that interesting and he shouldn’t really go through the replies to NBC’s teaser of a tweet. It’s a photo of him and Blake, or at least Blake, with his head thrown back, eyes squinted and dimples deep, because Adam’s barely recognisable, just a wild array of tattoos and a tuft of dark hair.

And look, usually they don’t post shit from the Blinds before it gets closer to them airing, but maybe they’re looking for some hype for the Lives, and aren’t people eating it up! Adam scrolls through comments and _comments_ and woah, **comments**. He even likes a few of the funnier ones.

Blake has retweeted it, too, and Adam knows, after god damn _years_ of following @blakeshelton on Twitter, that he doesn’t do emojis. Yet, there it is.

😘

And that’s it. Nothing else, but a single kissy face emoji.

Something spills in his chest. It’s warm, it tickles his in between his ribs, swims around his hearts. It makes his hands tremble, whole body shiver, and holy shit he is so fucking in love with stupid Blake fucking Shelton that’s it’s fucking dumb.

“What’re you smilin’ at, huh?” Kelly asks, and it startles Adam to the point where he almost tosses his phone in the air.

“Nothing”, he says, and when Kelly doesn’t buy it, sighs, “well, it’s just… all this. I missed _this_.”

“It’s like coming home”, she nods, and she’s all smile and warm and happy.

Adam looks at her, tugs the corner of his mouth upwards. “I guess.”

The moment gets cut short by Kelly’s call, and before he even knows it, all the hustling and bustling has left the room and he’s left there, sitting by himself as they’re preparing the stage for the first artist. He knows the drill, really, and is rather content with hanging back, peeking at the coaches and the stage behind their turned chairs from the entrance.

From there, he can actually see the artist, a nervous little thing hugging a guitar close to her chest, and she can’t be older than fifteen. Adam smiles at the wild bun barely holding itself together on the top of her little head, and he feels excited. It starts at his fingertips, skin prickling and burning to be up there, to get to press a button.

And she can sing, too. It’s very mellow, soft and sweet, but her tone is interesting and pitch great, and while she’s less confident with her head voice, it sounds promising and easily coachable. But, what strikes Adam the most, is the way she hangs onto the lyrics like a lifeline, connects with them and they carry her through the song, bold and beautiful.

He’s not amazed it’s a four chair turn.

Nick makes a great pitch, sweet banter between him and Kelly turning quickly into Kelly’s pitch, and Blake too manages to get a few words in before John’s deeper analysis. He takes a stab at the man to his left, and Blake sinks deeper in his chair, laughing but clearly already given up.

Adam doesn’t ask for anyone’s permission before sprinting over to Blake’s chair and leaning over the handrest, looking for the microphone attached somewhere in his clothes.

“What the hell—”, Blake manages, his accent a strong drawl, and nobody’s quite sure what has just happened. But he doesn’t push Adam away, and Adam looks at the artist, even points at her with his free hand.

“Look, um”, he hurries to say before the crowd erupts, finally realising it’s _Adam Levine_, and he leans even closer to the small microphone clipped on the collar of Blake’s jacket, pulling the fabric and Blake with it towards to his mouth, “Blake sucks at this so I’m here to pitch for him.”

“You’re gonna pitch for _me_?” Blake asks, incredulous and hushed.

“Yes, actually”, Adam says, fully serious, and he doesn’t look Blake in the eye as he settles himself on the other’s lap. “You’re so bad at it.”

And look, Adam doesn’t know how many times exactly he’s sat on Blake’s lap, but it’s a lot, to the point where Blake’s arms wrapping around Adam’s middle might be just a reflex. There’s no awkward shuffling, like it’s nothing special, and he’s always respected that about Blake. He’s a country boy and from the South, and he’s been twice married, and he’s confident enough with his masculinity that he can fool around with Adam and not even blink. Blake’s probably never even thought twice about it.

Very unlike Adam, who becomes _painfully aware_ of Blake’s arm dropping on his lap, fingers gripping his thigh, as the other hand starts to fumble with the mic attached on the collar of the jacket. The crowd _loves_ it, and Adam’s sure it makes _amazing_ TV until—

Blake’s hand climbs up to the back of Adam’s head, pushing him downwards, and okay, that certainly doesn’t awaken some strange feelings in his throat. He swallows them down before Blake almost hits him in the face with his other hand, shoving the little microphone at Adam’s face.

“Oh wow, was it like this all hundred seasons?” comes Nick’s voice, and shit, because Adam thinks he’s never been this turned on in his whole life, and the audience is just eating it all up, and it’s _really_ not the place to so turned on.

“Oh, it gets worse”, Kelly promises gingerly and Adam twists his body enough to look at them, shuffling deeper into Blake’s lap in the process, and suddenly feels protective arms wrap around him.

“What is this assistant coaching? Do we also get assistant coaches?” John asks, amused, peeking around at nobody in particular.

“Look, I’m just here to say you should most definitely pick Blake. These other guys, they’re great artists and just great people, but oh man, Blake, he just… He’ll love you and he really takes care of his team, I mean, if you don’t win the show with him, you’ll leave with his, like, I don’t know, _eternal_ love and support, and hey, Ol’ Reds are always open for you to perform, and just… Pick Blake”, Adam talks and talks and talks, and then, almost as an afterthought, adds, “I mean, he _has_ won the show six times.”

“Eight”, Blake whispers, tugging at Adam shirt until their eyes meet.

“What? Oh, _eight_ times, sorry”, Adam apologises and turns back to the artist, then back to Blake again, “really? Season 19 lives aren’t even done yet.”

Blake’s grin is easy. “But I will win.”

Adam laughs, searches for a camera to look straight at, and then, “When he doesn’t, we’ll just cut this, alright. Anyway, Carrie, who do you pick as your coach?”

The artist on stage takes in a deep breath, and the crowd starts screeching. You never quite make out whose name they’re yelling, Adam’s understood over the years, but you almost always hear what you want to hear.

“Oh gosh, it’s—I’m just—I think I’m going to—I’m gonna have to go with…”

Kelly’s holding her team jacket and Nick’s leaning against his button and John’s standing up and Blake’s doing his stupid finger point thing and Adam—

“Come to us, Carrie, we’ll be a family! Come on, you get Blake, you get me!” he belts out and he feels Blake shaking underneath him, full on belly laughing, and his hands are back to gripping Adam’s waist, holding him there.

“...Adam! I mean, Blake!”

That’s when the unexpected happens: Blake storms up, and while he should’ve just tossed Adam to the side or dropped him completely, he fucking picks Adam up like nothing, twirls him around the names illuminated on the floor, and he won’t stop fucking kissing. Really, anywhere he reaches — anywhere but lips — Adam’s cheek, neck, his collarbone peeking from beneath his tee, and all Adam can do is hang on for his dear life.

Blake finally lets him down to hug Carrie, send her backstage and mock all the other coaches, and Adam doesn’t know if he should just go with Carrie or not, so he ends up standing there, abandoned and suddenly cold, holding his arm with white fingers.

“We need a rulebook check!” John calls and points. “Is that allowed?”

The audience laughs, the coaches laugh, even Blake, dimples deep in cheeks as he walks back towards Adam. And before he even realises it, Blake’s scooping him up in a bridal carry and walking him around the stage as if to show him off, and only then sits back down in his chair, Adam still in his lap.

“Does he get to keep Adam or…?” Kelly asks from a crew member.

“What’re ya gonna do? Toss him out? A seasoned The Voice _veteran_, how dare you!” Blake yells, and the group settles into a friendly banter, all gathering around the one chair at the end. It feels much like the old days, and Adam finds himself comfortable, chit-chatting away while the crew is resetting the stage and preparing for the next artists, and Blake’s arms never leave his waist, hot and heavy, an idle thumb stroking at the skin beneath his shirt.

Adam doesn’t think it can get any worse than this.

That is until Blake wraps him in his denim jacket after a button press, insisting he’ll need the mic to make another great pitch for him.

So, if ending up wearing Blake’s denim jacket, in his lap, his head leaning over Adam’s shoulder — for the mic, Blake will claim later — isn’t the _worst_, Adam’s not sure what is.

“So.”

Blake startles, but his shocked eyes soften the moment the land on Adam in the open doorway to his trailer. He’s sat on the couch, relaxed. There’s one foot resting on top of his other leg, and he looks terribly naked in his button up flannel, without the denim jacket, sleeves rolled up and the few top buttons popped open, and if there’s a curl or a two of chest hair peeking out, Adam pretends he doesn’t notice.

The denim jacket is big and warm, and even though Adam is practically drowning in it, fingers barely making it out of the long sleeves, he doesn’t want to give it up.

“Are you just gonna hover there or…?” Blake asks and puts his phone away, screenside down, and he doesn’t look like a day has gone by. He looks warm and welcoming and safe and he looks like _home_ and Adam is really so, so tired.

It’s half hearted, the way he pulls the door almost shut after himself and joins Blake on the couch. Thighs touching, Blake’s knee knocks Adam’s gently.

“You okay?”

“I guess”, Adam shrugs, hands fidgeting in his lap, his leg bouncing nervously.

“Don’t think you are”, Blake says, and his voice is soft, the Southern drawl dragging the words into one, and Adam shivers.

“Oh”, he says, “what do you think, then?”

Blake inhales, and his hand comes to rest on Adam’s knee. It stops bouncing altogether, and when Adam looks at him, his blue eyes are cast down on the collar of the jacket, ghosting over milky skin and defined collarbones.

“I think”, Blake murmurs as his eyes wanders, “you left The Voice. I think”, and his hand comes up the collar, smoothing the fabric with the back of his index finger, “it wasn’t to write songs. I think”, and the tips of his rough fingers brush against Adam’s neck, “you wrote songs because you left this show.”

“Oh yeah?” Adam challenges, but he’s breathy and has to swallow and he thinks his skin might just be on fire. Yet, he chuckles, “You think I wrote songs about, what, you?”

Blake hums, amused, and his hand moves on Adam’s skin. It slips underneath the clothes his wearing, sliding over his chest, and finally nestles against his neck, thumb following the sharp line of his jaw.

The touch is electrifying, and Adam shudders against it.

It’s like all the loose ends he ever left behind, all tie up with that single touch, and they tighten around his chest, gut, heart, and finally around his throat, or maybe it’s just Blake’s hands, and Adam doesn’t fucking know—

He finds his body straddling Blake before his mind manages to catch up.

Well, he supposes, might as well.

His hands are tentative on Blake’s skin, fingers raking through the scruff on his cheeks, but Blake—Blake’s hand are solid on him, one on his waist and another gripping at where hip meets thigh.

“_Do you think of me, of what we used to be, is it better now, that I’m not around_”, Adam sings slowly, lower than the song goes, his lyrics soft spoken and barely there. His hand slides in Blake’s hair, more grey than he remembered, and when Blake pulls him closer, grips tightening, Adam thinks he might be getting somewhere with this.

His hips grind down, the movement barely there. Blake’s breath feels hot against his neck, lips not close enough to touch, and Adam might play with fire here as he continues, voice a mere whisper. “_Are you happy now?_”

Blake doesn’t say shit.

Adam barks out a laugh. 

“Right. Sorry.”

He stumbles to get up on his feet, his awful rush a stark contrast to the slow intimacy mere seconds ago, and he doesn’t stop until he feels the wall behind his back. And Adam’s just about to book it, out of this trailer, out of this set, out of The Voice and out of Blake Shelton’s life, but he’s right _there_.

Adam never feels quite as small as he does when Blake’s crowding over him. Five inches and some pounds shouldn’t be that much, but fuck if they don’t do wonders in a situation like this.

“Blake”, he says, and his voice body is itching to move, and Adam doesn’t know if it’s his ADHD or just… _this_.

“You write songs _to_ me”, Blake grunts. His blue eyes are piercing and Adam, even if Blake wouldn’t be nailing him to the wall with his body, can’t make himself look away, move away.

Adam feels terribly desperate. “I’m sorry. It was one night, it should’ve been one night—”

“One night? Don’t they teach you to add in your fancy Californian schools?” Blake tilts his head slowly. “One night, and another night on top of that, and one more night—Ah.”

Adam winces at the all too familiar song title before Blake gets it, the other’s face breaking into an amused smirk.

“That’s an old one.”

“Yeah”, Adam whispers weakly and blinks his gaze away. His heart is hammering against his ribs, and this really isn’t what he had had in mind when he replied to Irving’s email and, yeah, he’s not sure how it all went from doing a fun little prank and some bits for the Blind to him being pinned against a fucking wall of Blake’s stupid trailer with his dumb arms on either side of Adam’s head.

“Oh, ain’t that great”, Blake then says, “shovin’ in a few _her_s and _girl_s, to make it sound right? Afraid of losing your playboy reputation?”

“It’s not like a write them alone, I’m not a solo artist, I’m in a fucking band, Blake, you think they wanna play songs written for your dumb fuckin’ ass, huh”, and Adam’s fully shoving him now, but Blake doesn’t budge, “unlike you, at least I _write_, what are your writing credits, huh, _Turnin’ Me On_, partially, right?”

Blake’s expression remains the same, almost stoic, and he blinks, head tilted, and one of his hands drops to Adam’s waist, effectively shutting him up as he glances down where their bodies meet.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Adam swallows, hard.

“...Are y’all filming a bit?” Kelly asks, suspicious, and looks around for cameras. Adam laughs, his breath hot against Blake’s skin as he crashes against his chest, slender fingers slipping underneath the flannel shirt at the nape of his neck, and suddenly Blake’s all too busy with shoving Kelly out of his trailer.


End file.
